German Superstition
by silvergryphon06
Summary: The war was going badly. The earth heaves and its civilizations are on the brink of complete collapse. The English are dying within the smoking ruin left by the Germans' unstoppable eir options were few and far between, a fact that has made them desperate. So desperate that the nation is willing to make almost any bargain, pay any price that would mean survival.
1. Uncertainty

Trains were, by far, one of the most ingenious and convenient inventions his people could claim.

Arthur watched the countryside slip serenely by, fingers tapping gently against the wooden arm of his seat. The cushioning was not as plush or as finely threaded as what was available in Britain, but then, what could he expect in this country? Perhaps, if he were to be entirely honest with himself, the recent lack of finer things he had grown accustomed to in the last century was one of the more prominent reasons he was settled in this train to begin with.

Idly, he ran the gloved pad of his thumb along the curve of the cane that dangled from his fingers, tilting his head a little in thought, thick brows furrowing.

Hills of rolling green sloped up and down like the back of a giant serpent. Low stone walls undulated with the land, remnants of a simpler time. Still, they remained, fulfilling the same purpose as when they were built, stone by stone. It reminded him strongly of some of the older structures in the northern parts of Britain. Remote pockets of cattle, their shaggy hair wildly curling in the humid morning air, grazed silently as the train wound its way through their pastures. If he had glanced out the other window, he would have seen thick, rippling banks of fog blanketing the earth, hanging low over stagnant marshes of peat and waving cattails. Tendrils of silver mist stretched over the track, the engine plowing through them, making them waver and drag against the shiny metal with wraithlike fingers.

Black smoke hung in the air, stark even against the slate toned sky. It would rain soon, turning the landscape the bright, dazzling green of an emerald. In another time, he would have looked forward to it.

As it was, he could only ruminate that the impending weather reflected his predicament.

His fingers ceased their drumming, curling into a loose fist as his frown deepened. The other nations in the Alliance were caught up in their own conflicts. America had offered assistance to defend and rebuild after Germany's devastating blitzkrieg, but the mere thought brought an unpleasant taste to his mouth.

"A giant with no sense of his own strength," Arthur murmured to no one in particular with a slow shake of his head.

He shifted in his seat, tossing one long leg over the other as the first drop drizzled against the glass pane. France was also near the bottom of the list of allies he would ask for assistance. Besides, hadn't he agreed to enter this conflict in order to liberate the sorry bastard from the Axis powers? A sneer curled his lip. The fluffy-haired git was no stronger than that pasta-loving Italian and just as flighty. Russia and China were keeping Germany's troops as occupied as they could, perhaps Britain's one saving grace in the siege they were currently under. But after months of strategizing and failed meetings…

Germany…

Arthur's grip on his cane tightened.

The self-proclaimed Arian nation was the greatest threat the Axis held. No one would have disputed that. Since the beginning of the war, Germany had made leaps and bounds in technology, an army of metal and lead that poured over Europe, crushing great swaths of territory beneath their spit-polished boots. It wouldn't be long before they would be knocking at his doorstep. And he'd already been captured once, he thought with a wince. Spain, Switzerland, and many other countries refused to get involved in what they believed to be simply another overblown spat between nations who had nothing better to do. Arthur's knuckles were white.

They hadn't seen the cost of their indifference.

The train lurched to a stop and he rose, easing his grip on the cane and reaching to the empty seat beside him to retrieve his cap. His green uniform, drab as it was, still marked him as quite different than the other passengers that climbed down to the station platform. Pulling on the ends of his dark brown gloves and tugging up the collar of his trench coat, he strolled through the station. A dark green sign, trimmed in a burnished gold paint announced that he had arrived in Currow.

The light bulbs that hung from the beams of the open platform were bare, as were the ones that dimly illuminated the small interior of the building. The walls were chipped, and cracked, plaster clumped along the wall on the rough wood floor. The planks under his feet were uneven and coarse, never having been sanded properly. His boots echoed hollowly as he walked over them, feeling the boards give and sway under his weight.

He sidestepped his fellow travelers as they milled around him, gathered and stored luggage, retrieved tickets, and huddled together to ward off the chill of the gusts that blew across the platform and through the open windows from the south Arthur paused when he opened one of the double doors leading to a narrow dirt road, the wood under his palm creaky and in desperate need of paint. The wind rattled the glass in their panes as he turned back towards the locomotive, his expression grim.

A southern wind rarely carried good fortune.

Shaking his head, he lightly stepped down the stone steps and into the road, shoving one hand in his pocket as the other carried his cane, now used as a walking stick. The fog had thickened, rolling onto the road and coiling around his feet. His destination wasn't terribly distant from the station, perhaps two or three miles, but it was far enough to give him ample time to articulate what he would say once he arrived.

Unfortunately, nothing useful came to mind.

The road was the main thoroughfare for the village, meandering between modest shops and small houses. Women who were sweeping their stoops glanced up at him oddly as he strode by and he knew that as soon as he was out of sight, they would be rushing to their neighbor's. He paid them no mind, even chuckling a little as children paused in their play to gaze at him with open curiosity. A tavern stood on his left, door throw open and a playful tune cutting through the dreary rain. The conversations, however, stilled and hovered impotently in the air as he strolled by, his collar pulled high to ward off the errant raindrops that desired to trickle down his neck. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as the inn fell behind him, knowing that gossip was spreading like a disease through Currow at the peculiar stranger.

Arthur also knew that he would need to make sure the single street was well and deserted before he returned if he wanted to avoid any disagreeable situations.

The Brown Flesk River ran sluggishly just to his left, brown, shadowy waters swelling and rippling as tiny ringlets constantly plunked against its surface. The banks were still well above the waterway, ramshackle docks, dark from dampness, stretching out over it in several places. An occasional fisherman patiently waited, with a soggy yellow hat and black boots, his rod cast out and pipe clenched between his teeth. And then the river and the road bent away, guiding his steps out of the hamlet and into pastureland.

His thoughts wandered over the sparse farms he passed on the tapering road, the sun steadily roving behind the clouds. They reminded him strongly of his own country not so long ago, a simpler, and harder, time in his long history. The thatched roofs were a dull yellow in the light rain, the stone walls that served as fences to wildly tangled yards darkening as water trickled down the rock and simple mortar. Pools were gathering at the edges of the road, some slipping into the deep ditches that had been dug along each side. One farm kept cattle in their tiny yard, their large brown eyes watching the strange man pass by with a small smile and a wave for them.

Aside from the small homesteads, the countryside around him seemed almost…unearthly.

Between the deep, vibrant green on each side and the overcast sky, it was as if he had crossed some ethereal border upon disembarking the train. He half expected to see the twinkling lights of will-o-wisps flitting just over the hilltops. Wouldn't that have been a sight, he thought with a slight smile tugging at his lips. He often wondered about the magic this land was said to possess, down in the soil, under its sloping hills and deep-seeking roots. Perhaps _that_ person would be willing to—

The thought dissipated almost before it had formed. It was a silly notion.

Finally, as the road twisted around a sharp bend, he saw his destination.

A small pond curved around the base of a large hill, at the base of which, nestled as if it were a natural part of the landscape, was a modest cottage. The stones that made up the walls were large, white and well-chiseled, the mortar that held them together not even visible. Perhaps that was partly due to the soft moss that clung to the rocks, giving the structure a charmingly antiquated look. Two small windows, white curtains framing and softening their gaping quality, gazed out across the murky mere, towards the dense tree line of woodland that stretched further than he could see. A simple wooden door kept out the worst of the weather. Smoke drifted lazily out of a slightly crooked chimney on the right.

Well, someone was home, he mused as he stepped closer to the little gate that opened into the untidy yard. Blushing pink foxgloves had been planted along the low wall, bouncing lightly in the rainy breeze, their petals curling over the wall in a vivid contrast to the dull stone. Yellow daffodils grew from beds near the side of the cottage, tickling the just beneath the window panes.

Arthur passed through the little gate and immediately felt an unpleasant clenching in his stomach as he took his first step into the modest enclosure. Large stones had been placed in a crookedly winding path towards a single massive slab that served as a front step and he found that his feet were reluctant to pass over them. He considered turning back, retracing his steps and boarding the next train to Dublin. Even this far from the small home, he could feel the unwelcome chill.

No one that lived here would be happy to see him.

The muscle in his jaw clenched tight as he steeled himself. This was necessary. Even if the door slammed in his face, he had to try; more than his pride was at stake now. So, with a determined gait, he strode up the quaint pathway and knocked boldly on the door.

At first, there was nothing save the quietest pop of a cooking fire from somewhere within. Then he heard a creak as if someone had risen from an ancient rocking chair, light footfalls approaching over a hard wooden floor. Another stretch of silence followed and Arthur wondered if the door would perhaps, not open at all. He took half a step back, unease settling between his shoulder blades like an itch he couldn't reach.

Then the door did, indeed, open.

Green met green, irises of a lighter shade than his. Perhaps they could have been compared to seawater, but more likely to northern glaciers, for they were cold and flecked with grey. One's gaze was drawn to them, searching them for an answer that seemed to shimmer just beneath their heavy-lidded stare, like looking for a glimmer of scales beneath a stream's flowing waters. And they watched you in turn, weighing your worth in cool, almost mistrustful calculation. Perhaps it was due to the visitor that stood on the doorstep, Arthur wondered.

Hair the color of a winter's night fell in loose, wild waves around pale shoulders. Strands tucked themselves against a pronounced collarbone, a slender throat, and cupped a narrow jaw. High cheekbones swept up, lightly dusted with freckles, just under those unnerving eyes, and sprinkled across a narrow nose that slightly upturned at the end.

Arthur drank in those features, observing the similarities and differences from his own. With mild envy, he noticed that they hadn't his thick eyebrows. There was a long, tense silence as the two people regarded one another. Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer.

"Maggie," he said quietly, his tone soft and almost questioning.

Her full pink lips twisted downward in a slight frown, tightening at the corners as her hand came up to curl willowy fingers around the edge of the door. The other also lifted to press against the wood, making the cream-colored blouse she wore rustle slightly. It fell off her shoulders and what sleeves existed only reached to the back of her elbows. It was obviously handmade, a traditional corset, dyed a bluish grey, laced in the front just beneath her bust, then blended into neatly tucked skirts, falling down to bare feet that barely peeked out from beneath the hem.

She remained silent for more than a few heartbeats, dark lashes fluttering against her fair cheeks in languid blinks. Her head tilted a little, eyes narrowing in a manner that struck him as a little wary.

"Arthur," she replied after several long minutes, her accent lilting and soft, "I wasn't expecting visitors today."

If he could have seen the smile he gave her, he would have noted its wan stiffness and how it never reached his eyes. As it was, he could only thank his lucky star that she wasn't hurling curses at him. Perhaps the years apart had made her a little more civil than the diminutive child that had followed him with hexes dripping off her tongue like acid.

"I realize this is rather sudden," he admitted courteously, or so he thought.

Her lips curling in a sneer made him uncertain of that, however.

"When has that stopped you from inconveniencing me, brother dearest?" she snapped harshly, grey-green irises flashing as she threw open the door wide and stomped back into the dim cottage.

Her words cemented the feeling. No, his youngest sibling hadn't changed all that much.

Despite the awkwardness, he stepped inside and primly latched the door behind him, grateful to be in out of the damp. A candle was lit on the hewn table, two simple chairs flanking its sides. Dried herbs and vegetables hung on coarse strings on the walls, along with simple, decorative blankets that were used as insulation in the colder months. The fabrics were embellished with traditional knotwork along the edges while the old, forgotten tales of her people had been spun in colorful threads within. The fireplace was warm, a squat pot hung over the banked flames, whose reflection flickered over the inlaid stone hearth. a rocking chair and a three-legged stool sat near the fire, a basket of multi-colored yarns nearby. A sink was under one of the windows, looking out across the yard, dishes stacked neatly in an old-fashioned hutch. Along the furthest wall was a narrow bed with a thick blue coverlet and two white linen pillows. At its foot rested a large trunk with brass hinges. The final piece of furniture, besides the black gas stove near the fireplace, was a small bookshelf, well-worn volumes crammed on its sagging shelves.

Arthur took in all of it with a critical eye, tugging off his gloves at the fingers.

"What a medieval life you lead," he commented dryly, bracing one hand on a slender hip while holding the other arm snugly at his side, his cane hooked near the crook of his elbow.

Her glance was sharp as she moved to the stove and plucked up a black kettle, lighting the eye beneath it before rummaging in a cupboard that he assumed served as a pantry.

"I prefer to remain true to the old ways, unlike some," she remarked with a disdainful expression in his direction.

Arthur colored at that, blood rushing to his cheeks as angry heat prickled over his skin. Uncomfortable, he glanced down at his boots, biting down on the inside of his cheek as hard as he could. Bickering wasn't going to win him anything but a severe diatribe and her tongue was more than sharp enough to draw blood if she wished. Instead, he crossed the room and lowered himself gingerly onto the rickety looking stool, tucking his gloves into his breast pocket and leaning his cane against the warm stone of the fireplace.

Another silence followed once he settled himself, punctuated only by her brisk movements as she filled the kettle with water and plopped in two tea bags. Allowing the brew to steep, she stepped lightly to the rocking chair, smoothing down her skirts as she sat.

"Now," she said in a clipped tone, "What brings you to my doorstep on this fine afternoon? Are you on the way back from visiting our brother in the North?"

Arthur grimaced and suppressed a shudder at the thought.

"No. I haven't seen Seamus. You're the first one I've come to see in...quite a long time. To be truthful, I'd rather not visit any of our brothers, if I can help it."

Maggie nodded, dark waves spilling over her blouse. She knew, perhaps better than most, how their siblings treated Arthur; she was the exact same if only a touch more civil than the others. And less likely to beat the tar out of him. The kettle's whine saved him from having to immediately elaborate any further. Maggie rose and lifted the kettle with a damp cloth, extinguishing the stove as she went. Retrieving two cups from her hutch, she poured the dark tea, adding a drop of honey to each and stirring with a small spoon. She handed him one and kept the other, returning to her seat.

"No milk, I'm afraid, but rosehip tea may be better off without it."

Her tone was bland and conversational, making his skin crawl worse than the itching curse she'd placed on him as a child. He much preferred _that_ Maggie to this polite creature in front of him. A spiteful and screeching shrew he could handle. This version of his sister was simply too unnerving.

Experimentally, he took a sip from his cup and gave her a thin smile. "Delicious."

She hummed noncommittally from the rim of her own cup, her eyes closing as she seemed to savor the taste of her warm beverage. Her long fingers wrapped around the sturdy porcelain, clutching it in both hands and lowering it to her lap. Fragrant steam rose to tickle his nose in a pleasant way, making him relax his stiff posture somewhat. Unfolding his gangly legs, he stretched them out in front of him, crossing one ankle over the other.

The silence re-settled over them, but now it was slightly more amicable, he thought, both of them watching the crackling fire as rain continued to patter softly outside. His tea was surprisingly flavorful, bursting over his tongue with each sip. Rather delightful, really. At least, until he felt her eyes on him again, a cool gaze that he was loathe to meet. Yet he did, albeit with a block of ice settling in the pit of his stomach as he observed the naked suspicion in her light green irises.

"What do you want from me, Arthur?"

The quiet question made the tentative peace shatter around them like splintered glass. Sighing tiredly, Arthur set his cup on the floor beside him and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"It isn't what _I_ want, Maggie."

The hands that gripped her cup flexed, the knuckles whitening. A tic started in her jaw when he looked over at her again.

"Then what does England _require_ of the Republic of Ireland?" She ground out, the words sounding more like a hiss than an inquiry.

"It's not like that either!" He protested hotly, scowling.

Hostility crackled between them, harsh and heavy. When he stayed quiet she stood abruptly. Sweeping past him, she picked up his unfinished mug and placed both cups in the sink. By the rise and fall of her shoulders, he could tell that she was taking deep, steadying breaths. The action made his expression unexpectedly soften.

He'd taught her that- to calm herself when her temper threatened to give her a headache.

Sighing again, Arthur also stood and went to stand behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders. Her skin was warm, and he could feel the muscles tense when his palms landed on them. He bowed his head behind her, catching the scent of saltwater and rain-laden wind that had always seemed to follow her. It almost made him smile; the Irish had never been able to completely separate themselves from the sea.

"I need your help, Maggie love," speaking the old endearment that had always managed to make her relent her attacks when she was small and watching him with eyes like cold fire. "You're not so removed from the world that you don't know how badly my people need relief."

He was being completely honest. Bombs were daily raining from London's smoky skies, the buzz of flies nearly as thick and stifling as it had been hundreds of years before when the Black Plague had swept through Europe with devastating effect. His countrymen were dying in droves, at home, and across the Channel, fighting to keep Hitler's encroaching tide from swallowing them all. He had no one else to turn to, except a family that could barely claim the name. Even if a miracle occurred and she agreed to lend him her strength, it wouldn't be enough. He was going to have to call on their brothers as well and the thought nearly made him nauseous. It would be a humbling experience, to be sure.

"Please," he added softly when she remained silent.

He squeezed her shoulders as he felt the tightness in them loosen. She turned her head a little to regard him with an unexpectedly teasing look.

"Aye, I knew it was something," then she sobered, "But I won't make a formal alliance with you. Not even if you burned that thrice-damned Parliament to the ground."

He clung to her wording like a lifeline.

"Not a formal alliance?" He asked, half daring to hope. Then he gasped, turning her around so quickly that her hair whipped out like raven's wings. "You don't mean..." He couldn't even finish the thought, torn between that hopefulness and an uneasy disbelief.

She gave him a tiny smile.

"Aye. I believe, for the right price, I can procure you some aid."

Arthur paled, his hands slipping down to grip her arms.

"I can't ask that you of you. I'll go speak to our brothers, just forget I came by and-"

"You've already asked, you pommy bastard," she laughed humorlessly, wriggling free of his grasp. A wicked gleam had started to form in her eyes and Arthur found it rather disturbing. "Between you and me, I've been wanting to take a crack at that Kraut."

"B-but," he stammered, "to call on _them_. I haven't even considered to ask them for help."

And he had never planned to. Better to prostrate himself at his brothers' feet than ask _them_ for a favor. She gave him a look.

"Perhaps that's the real reason you need me, Arthur. No one else is willing to pay the price to try."

Arthur shook his head roughly, crossing his arms in a stubborn posture. "You won't be the only one to pay, Maggie, you _know_ that."

Her expression shifted between resigned and grim. "Aye, but tell me, won't it cost us all if I don't?"

Try as he might, Arthur couldn't refute that point. His mouth opened, then snapped shut. With a frown, he nodded shortly. "Fine. I'm not in a position to refuse anyway."

Her smile was profoundly mocking. "No, you aren't."


	2. Hesitance

He didn't know what he was asking of her.

Maggie slowly rocked in her chair by the fire, her hands moving of their own accord, going through the motions of embroidery. Her thoughts were far from her work, her gaze not even on the contents of her lap. Instead, she watched the flames lick along the charred remnants of a thick log, feeling, but not sensing, its warmth on her cheeks. The sun had set long before her fingers had taken up her needlework and Arthur had departed with it. His memory, however, lingered in the cottage, an alien presence that disrupted the harmony of the space.

War called for desperate measures, and her brother was decidedly desperate.

She had been truthful with him; she wouldn't make a formal alliance. Arthur had known, she suspected, that a contract between them was impossible, between any of the siblings. She certainly couldn't afford to enter into such an agreement…her people couldn't afford to either.

And they wouldn't allow it, she thought with a shake of her head.

Hatred for England ran deep here, perhaps deeper than even in the northern part of the country. In all honesty, she supposed that, in some eyes, Britain now reaped what they had sown long ago. She tugged gently on the needle with a frown. A sentiment she agreed with, to a certain extent. Nevertheless, she, unlike her countrymen, could remember a time when the English and the Irish were one and the same, nations bound by blood and creed. It had been a good time…and a hard time. A gentle breath escaped her lips.

Despite how she had made her offer sound to Arthur, it was not going to be easy.

They were as intimately connected to Ireland as she, perhaps more so. He hadn't been lying when he'd warned her that the fee would be steep, and she had absolute certainty that her people would not find the service to be worth the price. And yet, hadn't the Irish been calling on them long before they had buried the memory in their rolling hills? Had they not shown that they could be depended upon, despite the plethora of tales that spoke of the contrary? More than likely, however, the dangers would be considered riskier than any potential reward or benefit. They answered when they were summoned, though any mortal foolish enough to do so would find themselves in a more trying situation afterward than what had driven them to beckon in the first place. Under such circumstances, she would have agreed with that assessment.

But Maggie was no mortal.

Even so, she was certain that the bargain, once struck, would be difficult, even for a nation. It wasn't in their nature to be merciful or to consider the cost to those desperate enough to call on them.

War calls for desperate measures.

Still, what Arthur was asking of her—she suspected it had a little more to do than stopping the Germans.

It wasn't about their brothers, no matter how distasteful Arthur found their company. Nor was it entirely about the strain that he was under to find assistance for his countrymen. No, this was about leverage.

He understood as well as she that, by requesting her aid, unofficially or otherwise, he was placing himself squarely in her debt. Oh, it would never be formally recognized and, if he could help it, Arthur wouldn't mention it at all. He was awfully proud like that. Even so, he knew that, ultimately, it wasn't an opportunity that she could allow to slip past.

The British had been looking for an excuse to invade Ireland for years. The vestigial ties between the two countries had not been completely severed, not yet, despite the recognition of her status as a Republic. Maggie was still considered a Commonwealth. She had been able to establish herself as a neutral power in the war under the Statute of Westminster, and the Anglo-Irish Treaty had given her enough freedom to make her own choices, true. But were they choices or necessities? Had she chosen to assert her newfound power or had she been forced by the consequences of inaction?

In all honesty, it was a thought she didn't care to entertain.

Neutrality had been the most satisfying expression of power in decades, certainly more so than the defiant little pinpricks she had been prodding Arthur with for centuries. It was true that many other nations had expressed the opinion that she, and her brother in the north, were morally corrupt, turning a blind eye to other people in the world that needed their help. She had drafted a letter and given it to one of her government's officials as a rejoinder to the accusations.

 _Small nations like Ireland do not and cannot assume a role as defenders of just causes except their own. The existence of our own people comes before all other considerations. No government has the right to court certain destruction for its people; they have to take the only chance of survival and stay out._

It was a harsh response, hardly diplomatic, but it had gotten her point across. She had held true to that declaration, even after Germany's bold invasion of Poland and the beginning of the invasion of France. It was at that time that she had realized the limits of her own power…and the difficulty of maintaining that power.

Recognizing that she would need to ensure that the safety of neutrality remained true for the duration of this conflict, Maggie had agreed with changes in her government that she wouldn't have normally considered. With sweeping executive powers, her administration set out to tackle any problems that might arise and curb any inconsistencies with the nation's policy of neutrality. Censorship of radio newscasts meant newsreaders were confined to reading, without comment, the dispatches of each side, while weather forecasts were halted to preclude the inadvertent assistance of planes or ships involved in the war. Public expressions of opinion appearing to favor one side or the other had to be repressed. The word 'war' itself was avoided, with the government referring to the situation in Europe as the Emergency.

Maggie had agreed to it all, the memory of her acquiescence bitter on her tongue. But she had done so for Ireland's future. Arthur had sent emissaries before, requesting that she lift the restricting sanction of objectivity and join his Allies in driving the Axis back. He had cajoled, threatened with outright annexation, dangled the bright carrot of complete liberation from Britain right under her nose, all in order to gain leverage. It was more than winning a desperate war; it was politics.

And she had finally given in. Not formally, mind you, but her agreement could not be seen as anything other than a sacrifice of her hard-won independence from the greater powers in Europe. At least, it appeared that way to her.

It had to be worth it.

If she could contribute to the relief of the British people, she could perhaps, perhaps, find herself with a decree of absolute sovereignty over the entirety of Southern Ireland. Hundreds of her people were traveling to Britain every day, droves of them boarding the boats to cross the water and find work. Others had left the island to join the RAF, which had an open policy of recruitment from all parts of the Commonwealth. Maggie had protested to none of it.

She felt that she had taken enough from her people under the guise of their own good. She had agreed to so much, publicly anyway, despite her personal feelings. Every restriction had felt like a hot knife twisting in her chest, but they were her decisions. Arthur and his like would never have allowed her that kind of power if they'd possessed the foresight to see this conflict coming. The fact that she'd been given that freedom was both sweet and harsh.

Despite all her recent accomplishments in setting herself apart from her brother, England could still call on her if necessary, like he had done today. It was similar to putting a hound on a leash, she mused with a sudden scowl. The dog could wander a bit, stretch his legs and do what he liked, for the most part; but that tether was still around his neck.

And Maggie could feel hers tightening.

She sighed, putting aside her embroidery. Why had she agreed to this in the first place?

Leverage.

It was that thought that now kept her in her rocking chair, waiting for the small clock over the mantle to strike the right hour.

The wind had picked up as the night wore on, rattling the shutters and moaning against the door. Maggie stood quietly and padded to the trunk at the foot of her bed, pulling out a knitted shawl the color of ocean mist. Drawing it close around her shoulders, she went to the cupboard and retrieved two small cups and her kettle, filling it with water before placing it on the stove. She stood nearby, her arms folded gently over her abdomen and glanced at the clock.

It wouldn't be long now.

The wind seemed to grow in intensity, clawing at the stones of the little cottage with a fierce howling. Maggie kept from the windows and the door, waiting silently by the stove. There was a noise that seemed to be carried by the gusts, audible just beneath the whistling currents that burst against the structure like the sea against the shore. If she had listened more closely, she would have realized that it sounded like hoof beats, clattering on the hard packed road.

But the kettle was beginning to shriek, and she knew better than most that there was no point in speculating about such things. What would come would come, whether she acknowledged it or no.

Just as she lifted the teapot from the stove, the clock struck, and at the first chime, Maggie froze. The wind ceased, dropping away as suddenly as a radio is being switched off. The second chime rang out and it returned with a vengeance, scrabbling against the cottage. By the third, she had started to move again, pouring the fresh tea into one of the cups. Her movements echoed the peal of the clock, dipping a spoon into the jar of honey she kept near the stove then stirred it into the cup.

She'd lied to Arthur about the lack of milk, pulling out a small bottle and pouring its contents into the second cup. It was, however, all she had. Adding a drop of honey, she placed the spoon in the sink and turned towards the door, waiting for the final chime.

As it rang out, the wind increased in volume, the door creaking painfully on its hinges before bursting open beneath the unrelenting force. She could see nothing at first, staring at the pitch black night that oddly roiled and surged against the cottage. But then the darkness seemed to take shape, billowing and solidifying into long, flowing lines. Shadows appeared to be pulled from the cottage towards the open doorway, spinning like inky strings into a tall figure with thick black boots and a fluid cape clasped around broad shoulders. The chest was wide and covered by what appeared to be a darkly dyed tunic, though the material hardly managed to disguise its muscular build. A hand materialized, covered by a well-crafted leather glove and lifted as if to knock. Any features of its face were obscured by a deep cowl.

It stood just outside the doorway, motionless and Maggie regarded it for a long moment. Taking a deep breath, she reached over and plucked up the mug of milk at her hand then held it out towards her visitor.

Not even a nation could summon one of the Sidhe without having something to offer them.

"Well, don't just stand there. Come in."

If it was offended by her curt tone, she didn't see it. The hand dropped and a large boot crossed the threshold in a single step, the top of its hood brushing the doorway. The cowl fell away, revealing long, straight hair, blacker than her own, and deep-set eyes that were the color of charcoal. The face was that of a middle-aged man, albeit one that was still quite handsome. He wore a well-trimmed beard, as dark as his hair, that covered his square jaw. There was elegance in his movements, a refinement that reminded her sourly of the dignitaries Arthur had sent in the past to court her submission to his kings' rule.

The man crossed the room slowly and carefully took the mug from her outstretched hand. Taking a sip, he nodded towards her, a condescending smile playing around his lips.

"You'll forget the old tongue, speaking like that."

Her eye twitched.

"Doubtful," she sniffed, the only thing she was willing to say on the subject. It didn't appear to be the reaction he wanted, so he changed tack.

"Not many would invite me into their home, knowing what I am."

The gaze she leveled at him was far calmer than she actually felt. "Not many have the kind of need that I do."

A deep sound escaped him, like a snort or perhaps a laugh. "I wonder if you would say that if you knew how often I've heard it."

"My wording may have changed," she murmured with a demure smile that didn't reach her eyes, gesturing to the table across the room. "Perhaps less dramatic and more to the point."

She was certain that he laughed then, a low, rumbling sound that was pleasant to the ear. He lowered himself into the chair, which suddenly seemed woefully inadequate to hold his large frame. It creaked and groaned under his weight, nearly squealing in protest when he leaned back and propped his boots on the table. The action made the muscle under her eye twitch subtly, but she kept her features smooth and relaxed.

"Aye, but that's rarely how mortals desire for these encounters to progress," he replied, taking another sip of the sweetened milk with a pleased sound before adding with a shrewd glance, "But you're not an ordinary mortal."

Her smile became a bit sardonic.

"Why split hairs when I'm only a few centuries younger than you, Oran? I'm as mortal as you are."

He smiled at her indulgently, an expression that she intensely disliked…and mistrusted.

"True enough."

Silence fell over them then and Maggie waited it out. One couldn't hurry these kinds of things. She took a long sip of her tea, forcing herself to savor its flavor in order to rein in her irritation. Her guest wasn't immediately inclined to further their conversation and this was an instance that she was happy to oblige him. Of all the strange and wonderful creatures that roamed this ancient land of blood and magic, he was her least favorite. Perhaps that was arguable. His mistress was right up there on her list. Maggie banished the thought from her mind; to even consider the master of such a creature was to invite her presence and that, she could do very well without. Instead, she took the opportunity to consider how their dialogue would proceed. She would have to be careful.

Despite the trappings of otherworldliness, this was still politics.

After a while, Oran finished his milk and placed the empty cup on the floor at his side. He then folded his arms behind his head, his comfortable posture belying the keenly sharp gleam in his eyes.

"It's been awhile since I've been given an opportunity to speak to one of you strainséirí. Usually, it's preferred that I live up to my role, instead of enjoying the chance meeting of a new acquaintance."

His crooked grin was toothy and profoundly irritating. Shifting in her chair, Maggie leaned one elbow on the rough table and cupped her chin in a slender palm.

"Ah, to be the Far Dorocha of the old tales," she said in a sympathetic tone, "I can see where that would be lonely." His smile widened as she added, her voice sharpening. "Except for the long journey you take them on to the other side. That must give you plenty of opportunities to make up for lost time."

His chuckle sounded more like a growl to her ears.

"So you say," his black eyes pinned her with a calculating stare as his eyebrows rose in a mildly mocking manner, "But, to business. What can I do for you?"

Grateful that he was at least getting to the point, she chose to ignore the hidden meaning in his question. The Sidhe never did anything for anyone, not unless the gain for themselves far outweighed the price. The looping reasoning of the world was starting to give her a small headache.

"Your mistress is aware of the Emergency that my government has been concerned with this past year or so, yes?"

Oran nodded his expression grave for the first time that evening.

"Aye, that she is…though I won't presume as to what my lady thinks of your Emergency." He spoke the word as if it was oddly fitted to his tongue.

Maggie traced the rim of her cup with the fingers of her free hand.

"What she thinks of it is irrelevant." She wouldn't allow that suddenly unnerving stare he aimed at her stop her from continuing. "What does matter is if she is willing to consider my request for her help."

Oran's feet abruptly fell from the table to thud loudly against the floor, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his thighs and his fingers steepling in front of his lips.

"It depends on what you'd ask of my lady. And what you'd offer."

Maggie almost spat at him that it hardly mattered what she offered, the Sidhe always took what they wanted anyway, but she held the opinion fast on her tongue, choosing her words more carefully.

"I know very well that she has an army at her command, beings that would be more than happy to be unleashed on unsuspecting mortals. While I don't desire to have them wreak complete havoc across Europe, I would ask that she would lend her power to help my brother across the sea."

Oran was disconcertingly silent for a few moments, but Maggie kept her gaze steadily trained on his. After several heartbeats, his lips slowly parted.

"I've been told to relay to you my lady's unease about the current state of affairs in Ireland. She supports your decision to remain neutral, despite its break from the old ways."

Maggie's eyes flashed as they narrowed, but she kept silent, allowing the dark-haired man to carry on.

"I believe my lady would gladly give you and your brother her army, but-" he trailed off and Maggie's stomach dropped, sensing a condition that she would be less than pleased with.

She wasn't wrong.

Oran leaned back once more, spreading his hands in a placating gesture. "Will it actually make a difference?"

Maggie's eyes widened.

"Are you saying what I think you—"

"Aye," he interrupted with a strange laugh, "Not even all the Sidhe in Éire, with our queen leading the charge, would be enough to turn the tide of this war."

Her hand clenched around her mug, lowering her eyes to the table as she chewed on her bottom lip for a long moment. Taking a deep breath, she looked up again, resignation in her gaze. She felt drained. Arthur had placed so much hope on this chance…as had she. Oran grinned at her from across the table, as if sensing her thoughts, a hungry gleam in his eyes that set her teeth on edge.

"There is, however, a great deal you can still do for you and for us."

He reached out to touch her hand around the cup, drawing into his larger one and rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. She fought with herself not to snatch the appendage back with a snarl.

"My lady has also given this some thought, knowing that you would eventually see the wisdom of calling on our strength." His eyes glittered even brighter and the shadows cast by the candlelight seemed to grow and dance in response. "And she has formulated a plan that will not only save your brother from the destruction you fear...it will also ensure the return of Éire to its former glory."

Suspicion and apprehension twined in her belly like lead serpents, making her feel nauseous and she unconsciously flexed her fingers in his loose grasp. But her options were limited, again, she thought bitterly. She had put herself in this position, however, through her own damned choices. Swallowing a sigh, Maggie looked into Oran's eager face and slowly nodded.

"Tell me."

His grin was victorious and she wished fervently that she could reach across the table and slap him for it.

But that was not wise. So she listened.

"My lady proposes two tasks for the Republic of Ireland to perform. One, she will do everything in her power to assist you in. This will be the aid you have requested. The other, you must accomplish on your own, with no outside interference by Sidhe or mortal. This will be the price of that aid. Upon completion of these tasks, you will have the necessary assistance you need and will provide Éire with the power to finally break free of Britain's shackles."

Maggie had to admit, the deal sounded almost too good to be true. Perhaps that was why her chest felt so sickeningly tight. Her pale grey-green eyes narrowed as he leaned forward in her chair, black waves tumbling over her shoulders.

"And what tasks does she require of me?"

Oran released her hand and sat back in his chair, holding up a single finger in the air.

"The first will be to journey to your brothers' homes. There, you will plead your case to the Sidhe courts of their countries. You will then have to travel to those of Italy, Germany, and Japan. If you, with my lady's help, are able to convince their rulers to provide you with their support, it will turn the war in England's favor and thus fulfill your obligation without involving your government in the conflict."

Maggie took a shuddering breath. It was a nearly impossible task. She was honestly frightened to ask what fee the faerie queen would demand.

"And the price?" she asked in a faint voice, bile rising in her throat.

Oran watched her with a cruel smile.

"In a fortnight, you will be visited by an emissary from one of your brother's enemies. The neutrality you've declared has made you appealing to both sides of this Emergency, as your government calls it. He will travel here to Currow in order to court your favor just as your brother has done. You will not only have to convince him to accompany you in completing the first task, you must also establish an unbreakable contract with him, by any means necessary. It will stipulate that, in exchange for retaining all freedoms and privileges enjoyed by a Republic, you will formally join the Axis Powers and submit yourself to their sovereignty. This contract cannot be completed until you have convinced the other Sidhe courts to assist your brother, but it must be accomplished in order for my lady to finalize your bargain."

The room was starting to swim and Maggie wrapped her arms around her middle, her knuckles white where they dug into the soft wool of her shawl to ward off the sudden chill that chased across her skin. Her heart thudded dully against her ribs and her body shook.

He was demanding that she give up her independence completely. How did they think this would help Ireland regain anything, other than slavery? It was too much…they asked too much. It was a brutal twisting of her purpose. In order to give her brother the ability to fend off the German invasion, she was to bow her head once again, this time willingly.

Leverage.

In a flash of clarity, Maggie understood that the Sidhe cared little who controlled Ireland, as long as mortals continued to be foolish enough to enter bargains with them. And, with the conclusion of this contract, they would have an entirely fresh supply of fools.

And yet, when she looked back up into his fathomless black eyes, she said—

"Done."


	3. Incredulity

The black car, glinting dully in the afternoon sunlight, slowly rolled over the cobblestone bridge that led into Wewelsburg Castle. Ludwig wondered, not for the first time, at the misplaced grandeur of his government's newfound enthusiasm for a past that held no bearing on Germany's future.

Ramparts soared overhead, the sloping roofs dark and slick with the constant drizzling that had plagued the North Rhine for days. Streams of water ran down the murky panes of the castle's windows, dying the stones a rich, creamy color that was at odds with their harsh texture. The rain flowed down, trickling in thin rivulets, past the raised stone that bordered the bridge to pool in the inky moat far below. Ludwig watched out of the car window, his head turned slightly to the left as he held his back ramrod straight against the leather seat, his gloved hands resting lightly on his thighs.

His burnished blonde hair was slicked back to lie uniformly close to his skull, barely tickling the back of his neck. He lifted a careful hand to run leather-covered fingertips along the collar of his Waffen coat. He was in need of a trim, he mused idly. Sadly, time spent on the front lines rarely allowed for that kind of luxury. An expression tugged at the corner of his lips, but Ludwig would not have been sure what it was. He could admit that it would be good to have a chance, however brief, to regain a feeling of humanity. Donning a freshly pressed uniform had done wonders for his morale.

His mouth turned into a frown as the car effortlessly pulled to a stop in front of thick marble slabs that led up to two massive wooden doors, which were flanked by two rigidly posted sentries in shining black boots.

He waited a moment, allowing his thoughts to carry his attention hundreds of miles to the west, to the battle lines he had left in the hands of his commanders. Woefully unprepared commanders, he reminded himself with a faint grimace. The invasion of France had been less than smooth. Pockets of resistance were constantly cropping up, indiscriminate about who they slaughtered in their efforts to retake territory. Civilians and soldiers alike had been butchered with cries of 'Freedom!' and 'Vive la France!' echoing in their ears. Ludwig snorted dismissively. What freedom had they given to the German people, once they had been established a dominant power after the Great War? He seriously doubted the French had truly understood the concept until it had been taken from them. He also had his suspicions about these so-called Freedom Fighters currently inciting rebellion and mayhem in the southern part of the country.

Ludwig had been neck deep in strategy meetings, whose primary concern had been those militant cells when he had been summoned back to headquarters. The orders had been quite literally thrown across his desk by a sneering Obersturmbannführer with seething cerulean eyes and a hard mouth. He had dismissed the resentful officer with a cool reminder that such attitudes often resulted in the continuation of one's errand boy status in the Führer's army. The man had hardly batted an eyelash, leaving the nation with the impression that the current rank and file were becoming increasingly more concerned with their personal advancement than Herr Hitler would be led to believe.

The crisply folded paper that he had pulled from the delivered envelope only deepened that misgiving.

Despite the French efforts, the situation on the Western front had been improving. Daily reports indicated that regardless of losses due to the Underground, German troops were firmly entrenched in Paris, Grenoble, Marseille, Orleans, Strasbourg, and Versailles. Tank divisions had already taken Carentan and Cherbourg, along the French coast, placing them one step closer to gaining aerial and naval supremacy over the English Channel. The Luftwaffe had been steadily bombing Britain, concentrating their destruction on the capital city of London in the hopes of both demoralizing and disabling the RAF. According to initial intelligence, this tactic had been rather successful. With aerial superiority nearly established, it would only be a matter of time before Ludwig could order his commanders, Raeder and Göring, to begin preparations for a ground assault that the Führer had dubbed 'Operation Sea Lion'. Admittedly, the German naval forces were nowhere near the might and scope of the British Royal Navy, but, with timing and careful planning, Ludwig truly believed that England would topple beneath the magnitude of the scheduled incursion.

And then he had been summoned back here, during what he considered to be a crucial moment of organizing one of the most decisive maneuvers of the entire campaign. If successful, it would be a monumental step towards ending the war and, he admitted silently, achieving the vengeance Ludwig had desired for nearly two decades.

His hands clenched.

As he opened the car door, unfolding his tall and muscular frame from the back seat, Ludwig craned his neck back to let his eyes wander up the North tower, light droplets coldly sprinkling his face.

"Aufschub bringt gefahr," he murmured to himself as he let his eyes slide back down the imposing façade with a scowl.

There is danger in delay.

It was as true now as it was nearly three centuries ago. This unexpected directive to return to the Fatherland, as the propaganda minister had recently taken to calling it, could only impede their efforts on the Western front. Ludwig was not as blinded by hope and loyalty as his countrymen; Herr Hitler had brought them together with a singular goal, but that was the extent of his involvement in bettering Germany. It would take troops, artillery, and Ludwig's personal presence in the field to ensure the future the Führer promised.

The tall blonde let out an irritated breath as he strode up the wide steps, nodding briskly as the two SS guards, the lack of stripes on their swastika insignia signifying their low rank. To his grim eyes, the red swaths of cloth around their biceps resembled bloody, open wounds. He barely nodded to them as they sharply saluted.

Of all the branches of the Third Reich's military, the Schutzstaffel was his least favorite. In the early years, he had encouraged their growth, under the impression that a united, paramilitary group who valued discipline, commitment, effectiveness, and political reliability could only benefit the broken people of Germany. Like the words of the Führer, their presence had given his people a foundation to build upon, a show of strength that the country desperately needed. They had merged with the police not long after being established and then had also become a major division of the German armed forces. Before he had blinked, they had taken charge of education, financing, science, and manufacturing. The memory of those sudden changes, in place without even consulting him in the matter, still burned like lingering whiskey. They were changes, however, he had learned to deal with, his attention pulled to war efforts on distant soil.

Lately, however, rumors had reached his ears, even as far away as Western France, that horrible, unspeakable crimes were being hushed up by the high command. He couldn't be certain when he couldn't verify the truth behind the faint accusations, but he disliked the fear he heard in people's voices when the SS was mentioned.

Tongues wagged concerning practices of torture and black magic, suppositions muttering of dark summoning rituals and people vanishing in the dead of night. Ludwig didn't place much stock in the scuttlebutt of the enlisted men or the French peasantry that hosted his troops. Notoriety could be an effective tool against desertion and rebellion, given in the correct doses, but then the rumors had become wilder. Tales were being traded about deals with the ancient fairy court of Brittany while others reported sightings of strange lights and tiny figures scurrying around camps. Ludwig had dismissed the claims outright, even addressing his troops formally in an attempt to discourage the more ridiculous accounts from spreading. He pointed out that, even if someone had seen something, it was probably a stray cat, and he demanded that they consider what the SS, a force of elite soldiers tasked with protecting the integrity of the German people, had to do besides becoming fodder for their absurd gossip? And, he reminded them harshly, didn't they have their own duties to be attending to?

No one had argued with him on that point, although, after being stared down by Germany himself, who would?

What did the Führer think, he asked himself, and what could he possibly see in keeping a force that terrorized the people who adored and obeyed him without question? Ludwig could only conclude that the Führer was either unaware of the rumors or unable to handle them when his attention was demanded elsewhere. His faith in Herr Hitler may not have been blind, but he still trusted that the Führer knew what he was doing. Hadn't he already given Germany back its pride, its self-sufficiency, and had restored even more land than what they had lost twenty years ago?

If problems existed here at home, it was due to lesser men than the one that was leading them to victory.

It was not, nor had it ever been, the Führer's decision to spend millions of marks on the 'research' so many of his generals were conducting. When they should have been sent out to the fighting units in the west, scientists from every corner of Germany were being dragged from medical facilities and sent out across the world to bring back proof of Aryan superiority. But then, it wasn't Herr Hitler that was seeking reassurance. As for the supposedly scientific evidence of German physical and mental preeminence, Ludwig doubted the racist drivel that continually poured out of Berlin, from every radio speaker and stained each newspaper.

It served its purpose, he could concede that point; his people needed to feel worthy of their heritage again needed to be proud of being Germans again. But the 'scientific' findings that were being presented were a far cry from what he had seen in his long years of existence. He cared little for other nationalities, save for perhaps his brother and that helpless little Italy, but he had never considered one countryman to be inferior to another.

He thought back to the first orders Herr Hitler had sent out concerning the 'Jewish problem'. Initially, Ludwig hadn't protested the restrictions placed on the Jews, anticipative of the boost in German industry and trade that might have ensued. He'd given the ethnic prejudice no more than a moment's thought, content to believe it the result of an intolerant ignorance that would have faded with time. After all, the Führer had more than proven his ability to skillfully guide the country to a more prosperous future, restoring the economy, creating jobs, giving courage to a kowtowed people, still sore and hesitant after the end of WWI.

And then the talk of cleansing had begun.

At first, Ludwig had dismissed it as all the other scuttlebutt running rampant; his attention had been occupied with plans of expansion and revived commerce. Whispers, however, started to circulate through Berlin, furtive inquiries into the worthiness of anyone not of Germanic blood, or who posed a threat to a 'whole Germany', one unblemished by the weaknesses that had led to their defeat at the hands of the likes of France and England. It was paranoia, pure and simple, and Ludwig suspected that the SS had been the primary instigator of the mistrust sown in the country. But he had been unable to find the words to reassure his people that what made them German were their ideals and their unwavering belief in themselves, nothing less.

Perhaps if he had, the situation in here at home would be very different.

He shook his head roughly as he threw open one of the doors and stomped into a polished hallway, lined with thick tapestries and breathtaking paintings. His eyes scanned the floor ahead of him, noting an odd wheel-like pattern embedded every few feet in the marble tiles. The pillars, while simple, were also similarly decorated, marched down the corridor in even rows. Despite the warm glow that came from the chandeliers that hung suspended from the vaulted ceiling, the overall feel of the castle was taciturn. The windows looked out towards a dismal countryside, chilled rain pattering against the expensive glass. Strange works of metal and stone had been placed cleverly in specially designed alcoves and yet none of it could soften the severe angles and austere ornaments that the SS seemed to prefer.

With the exception of his long strides, there was no movement in the stronghold. Even so, Ludwig could not shake the sensation that he was being observed. His footsteps rang out hollowly as he climbed a darkly polished stairwell, resisting the chilled shiver that tried to slip up his spine. Perhaps it was the atmosphere in such a dismal place, he reasoned; beer would go a long way in dispelling the impression.

He sighed again, running a hand through his hair. These days he doubted even beer could improve his opinion of his superiors. He would need to have a meeting with the Führer, and soon. This kind of doubt would only eat away at him, undermining everything they had already accomplished. If Herr Hitler was not aware of the misgivings his people had in the doings of the SS, then he needed to be informed.

Ludwig reached the top of the stairs and continued straight ahead through a set of double doors, the sound of his boots' tread now muffled by the plush burgundy carpet that sunk slightly underfoot. Large, ornate portraits of officers distinguished by rank and service hung between deeply stained doors that trooped down the upper corridor. Electric lights hung in elegant black metal holders, yellow light bulbs casting a warm glow. The walls and ceiling were paneled in a rich oak, far more lavish than the décor of the lower floor. It was a splendor that spoke volumes when compared to the dilapidated condition of the village at the base of the castle.

Ludwig's pale blue eyes narrowed.

There was another reason to speak with the Führer; while most of the claims about the Schutzstaffel couldn't possibly be true, there may very well be something to the feeble accusations of corruption. The Gestapo, a smaller branch of the SS, were quite well known for their looting practices in France. Ludwig had done his best to stamp out that problem, furious that his own people would stoop so low as to act like thieves and bandits to a defeated foe. If anything, the Gestapo should have been forging bonds with the French, assisting in dampening the desire to revolt, instead of inciting fear and anger. Unfortunately, he'd had to resign himself to the fact that it was out of his hands. He had more than enough to deal with on the front lines and his attention could only be pulled in so many directions.

Before long, he came to another set of double doors, these intricately carved with runic symbols that he hadn't seen in centuries. Surprised to look up and see them staring at him silently, he stopped short. He stared for a long moment, his gaze tracing the impressive woodwork. It had been a long time since he'd been given an opportunity to read the old language.

"Kurios," he murmured, lifting a gloved hand to trace his fingertips over the sharp planes and indentures.

The design of the letters was to be stretched into another one of those odd wheels, the letters creating both the enshrining circle and the jagged spokes. Any which way he read them, they made little sense, but their presence alone was…chilling. He considered if their meanings, and their history, was known to the occupants of the room behind the doors.

If it was, then they didn't understand what they were inviting into their residence.

Ludwig had never been a superstitious man. He relied on what his senses and his reason told him. The only time he didn't was when his instincts were screaming at him to duck an incoming bullet. But he remembered a time, not so long ago, when it was said that things far more powerful than tanks roamed the countryside when men dared not stray beyond their thresholds once the sun sank beneath the horizon.

Shaking off the unsettling sensation, Ludwig curled his hand into a fist against the door and knocked three times. A muffled voice came through the thick oak panel and he gripped the heavy round knob tightly. Turning it, the door swung back on silent hinges, unexpectedly easy to open considering its height and breadth.

It was a library or perhaps more of a study. Thick, leather-bound tomes, encased in flawless glass, marched in impeccable lines along the walls, interrupted only by a white marble fireplace that was crackling and popping merrily with fresh tinder. Above it rose the Nazi eagle in proud black, swathed in the burning red of the flag. A grand desk was situated at the far side of the room, elaborately carved with similar runes to the ones that covered the door, resting eagles perched on each corner. A large, elegant chair sat just beyond the expanse, a deep shade of brown to match the stained oak surface of the desk. Folders were neatly fixed at the center, with a small stack of slender boxes squatted at the corner. A runic paperweight and two slim, black pens were the only other adornment.

Twin wing backed, leather chairs had been placed on either side of the fireplace, also a rich, dark shade of brown, and complementary to the burgundy carpet. Ludwig couldn't see the occupant of the one closest to him, but he instantly recognized the other.

"Reichsführer Himmler," he greeted with a respectful bend of his waist.

Firelight glimmered in perfectly round spectacles as Himmler's head turned towards his visitor, his tiny mustache quivering slightly as his thin lips curved in a wan smile.

"Ah, Herr Deutschland, we've been expecting you," black eyes flashed coldly as he rose from his chair, "for nearly two days now."

Ludwig inclined his head, his expression pained.

"I'm afraid it couldn't be helped, Reichsführer. The supply routes—"

Himmler waved his hand dismissively as he moved towards his desk. Ludwig noticed the Reichsführer's thinning black hair had been combed to cover an untoward balding patch. His features were mild as he stood near the large bay windows that framed his desk, his arms folding neatly across a slender chest.

"I'm well aware of the situation on the western front," Himmler replied in clipped tones, "Of greater interest to me is the here and now."

Ludwig frowned a little as he stepped closer to the desk, adopting a military at ease pose as he watched the Reichsführer for a long moment. A glance out of the corner of his eye revealed the other person in the room to be an Obergruppenführer, the three-leaf insignia on his collar clearly indicating his rank. His eyes were deeply set beneath a pronounced brow, with a narrow nose and prominently square, clean-shaven jaw. He was an older man with a distinguished air about him, with one leg neatly folded over the other. His arms rested casually on those of the chair, his dark gaze alert and, Ludwig suspected, missing nothing.

"Would that interest be in reference to my orders, Reichsführer?" he inquired, turning his attention back towards the window.

Himmler pinned him with a thinly veiled impatience.

"Of course. Obergruppenführer Wolff, would you please?"

The officer stood at once, turning smartly on his heel and exiting the room via a side door on the left, closing it firmly behind him. Himmler gestured to the recently vacated chair.

"Please be seated, Herr Deutschland."

"Nein, danke," Ludwig declined with a quick shake of his head. Frankly, he preferred to make this meeting as short as possible.

With a small, offhand shrug of narrow shoulders, the commander of the SS turned more fully towards the nation. "As you wish."

Ludwig resisted the urge to grind his teeth together as a pronounced silence fell between them. Truly, he found the little man to be detestable. As to why, he couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something lurking behind Himmler's drooping eyes that made his skin crawl. Perhaps it was the hint of a smirk that always seemed to be playing around his mouth, or the arrogant command the man cloaked himself with despite the near foot of height that separated the two men. That had a great deal to do with it, Ludwig decided irritably; the Reichsführer's superior air whenever Ludwig walked into a room. The man honestly seemed to believe that he was the nation's better, his small nose held so high Ludwig half wondered that he didn't drown when it rained.

Thankfully, he didn't have to suffer Himmler's presence alone for long, Wolff re-entering the study and carrying a bell-shaped object covered in a black cloth. Gently, he set it in the very center of the desk, then stepped back, his hands clasping at the base of his spine. Himmler crossed over to it and braced his hands on the polished surface, his eyes gleaming strangely

"Herr Deutschland, I have a vital mission for you. When accomplished, I have every belief that it will ensure the complete victory of the Thousand Year Reich."

Ludwig felt his brows rising in an incredulous expression.

"I'm honored in your faith in me, Reichsführer, but my orders are still to—"

"Your previous orders are no longer a priority," Himmler interrupted briskly, causing Ludwig to close his mouth with an audible click.

The nation looked at the SS commander with narrowed eyes. The defense and expansion of the western front had been the Führer's personal command. To ignore those orders would be tantamount to—

Himmler leaned down and opened a small drawer, pulling out a fresh envelope and handed it to Ludwig, who took it dubiously in his gloved hand.

"These are your new orders, signed by the Führer himself. He has seen the potential in this new operation, which will ensure that your presence in France will no longer be necessary."

Ludwig was speechless, his mind racing to catch up with the sudden alteration. An unpleasant sensation unfurled in his stomach as the Reichsführer added with a thin smile.

"I would also like to inform you that you've been temporarily transferred to SS command. For the duration of this assignment, you'll be reporting directly to me."

"As you say, sir," Ludwig answered automatically in a dull voice.

He swallowed hard before taking a deep breath. When he glanced up from the envelope in his hands, Himmler had straightened, placing one pale hand in an odd caress against the black fabric that concealed the object beneath.

"Excellent! Then we'll proceed right into your debriefing. I'm sure you are aware of the proclaimed neutrality several nations have taken since the commencement of the Führer's plan for the growth of the Third Reich?"

"Jawohl," he replied thickly, discreetly fisting his hands behind his back.

Himmler continued as if he hadn't answered, clearly excited now as his hands became animated, his speech quickening. "While many of these supposedly neutral countries have been plied by both sides of this conflict, I've recently received word that Ireland, a tiny nation off the coast of England, may be open to negotiations."

Ludwig allowed his skepticism to show. "If I may ask, sir, where did this information come from?"

Himmler's smile was indulgent.

"A highly reliable source, Herr Deutschland, I assure you. Of more eminent significance, however, are the potential advantages that could be gained if the Republic of Ireland is swayed."

Slowly, Ludwig nodded, pressing his lips together in thought. "We would gain both an ally and a new base from which to launch our blitzkrieg, both on England and across the Atlantic." His blue eyes sparkled with newfound enthusiasm. "We could take out over half of the Allied forces with a single blow."

"It would end the war," Himmler beamed, evidently pleased with both Ludwig's understanding and his own cleverness. "But what is even more important is the further ally we will gain by bringing the Republic of Ireland into the Third Reich."

Ludwig watched him quietly, waiting for the smaller man to continue. Himmler waved his hand over the object on his desk, black eyes nearly blazing.

"You would not know, Herr Deutschland, but I've been working secretly for years to establish ties with a previously unknown realm. I designed this castle with that particular goal in mind. I shaped the SS into the force it is today, all in order to guarantee another alliance that will ensure that the future of the Third Reich will well exceed the thousand years prophesied."

"That…would be an ideal future, Reichsführer," Ludwig replied carefully, suddenly feeling wary.

Himmler's smile was smug as he exchanged a glance with Wolff. "Indeed. How much of your own folklore have you read, Herr Deutschland?"

The question took Ludwig aback, causing him to be tongue-tied a moment as he grappled with the inquiry.

"I've—I'm well aware of the more prominent, general superstitions and beliefs of our people, sir."

"Ah, I see. Superstitions..." He seemed disappointed by that answer, but pressed on, leaning forward on the desk eagerly. "Then tell me, how much do you know of elves?"

Ludwig felt his brows rising again.

"Elves, sir? I'm afraid I know very little."

"How unfortunate…Well, perhaps I can give you some insight."

Ludwig frowned deeply, parting his lips to ask what the SS commander meant when Himmler abruptly grasped the black cloth covering the object on his desk and drew it back with a flourish. The nation's jaw dropped in shock.

"Mein Gott!"

He owed his men a formal apology.


	4. Consideration

It was late in the evening when he finally arrived home.

Ludwig shrugged out of his heavy trench coat, a puddle already forming from the droplets running in thin rivulets off his shoulders and down his broad back. Grumbling under his breath with a scowl, he hung the coat on the rack just left of the door, slipping his hat onto a curling peg above it. The house was quiet, which instantly set his teeth on edge. Scowl deepening, he strode from the front door and its wet carpet towards the kitchen.

Poking his head through the open doorway, he glanced around the neatly organized counters, scanning for any signs of displacement or misuse. Stepping onto the light blue tiles, he marched to the refrigerator and pulled out a dark brown bottle, reaching into the drawer beside the freezer and drawing a small metal tool. With a flick of his wrist, the top of the bottle opened, rich fizz gushing towards the neck as he placed the instrument back exactly where he had found it. He took a deep swig of the beer, wincing at its coldness. He preferred it warm, but when he wasn't home, he couldn't complain about how it was kept. That was what Feliciano had told him, at any rate. He hadn't bothered to argue.

Aside from the alcohol, the kitchen was exactly as he had left it a few months before, which only served to heighten his suspicion. Either that irksome Austrian had been scrupulously cleaning after each use, a notion that Ludwig found to be highly unlikely, or the other occupant of his home had, for a change, become meticulous in his cooking habits. Initially, he scoffed, turning away from the perfectly spotless countertops and cabinets. Feliciano could hardly tie his own shoes, let alone manage to clean up after himself. Then again, Ludwig mused, stomping up the staircase that led to the upper floors, the man tended to be unusually serious when it came to food. It was conceivable that he'd adopted a modicum of maturity and responsibility, taking care of the house while Ludwig had been away these past few months.

Possible…and unlikely.

He reached the door of his bedroom and put the thought from his mind. Sweeping over the threshold, he set the beer down on his dresser and began unbuttoning the highly polished clasps of his uniform, his gloved fingertip brushing over the medals decorating his chest. With a relieved sigh, he tugged the hem from where it had been tucked into the waistband of his crisply pressed trousers. Shrugging out of the thick material, he proceeded to fold it neatly, placing it on the simple wooden chair in the corner of the room. Unbuckling his belt with a soft clink of metal, he also placed it on the chair, hanging over the back.

A quiet grunt escaped him as he sat on the edge of his neatly made bed and began to untie the multitude of laces that crisscrossed up his thick black boots. The iron cross around his neck was cool against the bare skin left by the low collar of his white t-shirt. His mind wandered as his fingers automatically worked at the complicated ties.

The Reichsführer had given him a great deal to think about. It was, without a doubt, worth the risk of traveling through England for a chance to make an alliance with Ireland. And the risks were great, he admitted to himself with a thin pressing of lips. Notwithstanding Herr Himmler's enthusiasm, Ludwig was aware that the head of the SS had underplayed just how uncertain the outcome of this mission was to be. There were no guarantees, neither of Ireland's agreement to an alliance or even if Ludwig would be able to make it into the country at all.

The English, despite the heavy toll the German blitzkrieg had taken on the nation, would be highly alert for suspicious travelers. Which meant, Ludwig reminded himself grimly, that everyone would be stopped and checked, often without warning, as they moved across the country. The papers he had been given were excellent forgeries, nearly identical to the actual thing, he suspected, but there was always a small chance that someone would be able to detect a minor modification in the royal seal or a discrepancy with a particular signature. Ludwig could make a mistake; his accent might accidentally come to the forefront or someone could overhear him mutter an oath in German. The slightest misgiving from anyone who looked at him, closely or not, could cost him several hours of interrogations and luggage searches. Not that he planned to take that much with him on this trip, but it was still a possibility that even that stitching in his suitcase could mark him as a foreigner.

And then there was actually traveling through Ireland itself. Because the country had declared neutrality so openly and so definitively, it was difficult for accurate information about current attitudes concerning the war. Ludwig, as well as his superiors, were aware of the restrictions the government had placed on radio broadcasts and newspapers. It was doubtful that opinions could be openly spoken about, which limited just how much spies could gather about Irish sympathies. They knew that hundreds had signed up for service in the RAF, but that still left thousands more unaccounted for. He was, for all intents and purposes, going in blind.

Not to mention that no one had spoken to Ireland herself to ascertain if she truly supported her government's neutrality or not. Well, Ludwig mused, it had been a long time since anyone had seen or spoken to her in any official capacity. She wasn't exactly reclusive, but she wasn't known for being very open to other countries. In that sense, he was reminded of Japan. With that comparison in mind, perhaps an agreement wouldn't be all that difficult to achieve. On the other hand, it had been years since he had last seen her, not since the Great War. He recalled very little about her, except for the green eyes that marked her as one of England's siblings, a wildly tangled mane of black hair, and a fierce temper.

There were few of her countrymen that had volunteered in that war; most of them were content to defend their homeland without ever stepping a foot away from Irish soil. Tensions with England had been high then too, although that hadn't stopped her from coming to her brother's aid when he'd called. Ludwig snorted as he reached the last of his laces; she hadn't been given much of a choice. Still, she had performed honorably and well in that war. One of the few times, and the first time, he realized as an afterthought, he had actually seen her on the battlefield had been in Northern France, during the advancement of his troops towards Paris.

 _It was cold for August. Water flowed down the back of his collar, icy rivulets that soaked through the skin to chill bone. Tiny structures, barely held together with mortar and straw, stretched across the horizon like playhouses. It was too quiet. Droplets plunked off the edge of his cap, frigid gifts from the bleak, rolling clouds overhead. Ludwig cast his blue eyes upwards for a moment, his expression grim as it fell back to the muddy field ahead._

 _Cutting his gaze across the line of rumbling tanks at his back, he gave the signal to advance. It was slow progress, tires sinking almost entirely into the dark soil. Boots squelched through the muck in a steady rhythm, clearly audible even over the thunder of the massive Tiger tanks. Ludwig rode at the fore, his binoculars methodically sweeping for enemy troops. The British were still here. They had to be. None of the scouting parties had reported a retreating force, only an additional two companies entering the village._

 _Gunfire had erupted sporadically throughout the day, the German line tediously creeping forward. They'd incurred heavy losses that morning, a hasty attack near the bridge leading into the village of Etreux. Ludwig had ordered a reformation after that, pulling back the infantry behind the tanks. The tactic was successful and the Germans had been able to begin a slow, but steady encroachment._

 _It was only a matter of time before they reached the edge of the small hamlet. Still, the lack of retaliation when his troops had approached so close had a twinge of unease settling between his shoulder blades. But the enemy was grossly outnumbered and possessed only the large artillery guns, which were no match to a German Tiger. He was confident, despite his misgivings, that the day would end with a rout in their favor._

 _It was in that moment that he saw her, emerging from one of the houses. Ludwig raised his binoculars for a closer look, curious that a single civilian would stand down an entire division of the Deutsches Heer. A rifle was tossed casually over one shoulder and a cigarette dangled from pale lips. Black ringlets clung damply to a painfully young looking face. With surprise, he realized that it was a woman…and her grey-green eyes were firmly fixed on his own._

 _With a shrug of her shoulder, she took aim and fired._

Those two companies that had entered the village that morning had very nearly cost him the battle of Mons. Not even 600 men, not even three companies, had held his 20,000 troops at a standstill well into the night, covering the retreat of the larger British force. It had been a suicidal engagement, and yet they had lost less than 40 officers that day, all of them Irish. It was well into the second day of fighting before Ludwig had been able to rally his forces long enough to finally drive them back, capturing Etreux in the process. For the Germans, the Battle of Mons was a tactical defeat, but nonetheless a strategic victory. Although the Deutsches Heer was temporarily held up by the British and suffered heavy casualties, it still managed to cross the barrier of the Mons-Condé Canal and began its advance into the heart of France.

A very narrow margin of victory.

The memory faded as he toed out of the boots, precisely inserting the loose laces inside the thick leather and placing it at the foot of his bed. A series of clicking sounds reached his ears when he reached for his beer.

"Eh?" he murmured quietly to himself, glancing towards the still open door as he tugged off his gloves and folded them on the nightstand.

The sound increased in pace and volume until, without warning, he was sent sprawling back across the bed, multiple furry bodies writhing and rubbing against his chest and face. For the first time in what was probably months, Ludwig laughed, a thick, sloppy tongue licking up the expanse of his cheek.

"Aster, enough, boy, enough!" With an effort and a grin, he pried the massive golden retriever from off his chest, reaching up to scratch the golden retriever's ear as he switched patting the Doberman and German Shepherd that had taken command of his legs.

"Blackie, Berlitz, down boys, come on. Off of me, now."

The dogs, still clearly excited, obeyed, their bodies wriggling with the force of their tails swishing back and forth. In a sitting position, their tails swept the floor in unison, their front paws constantly lifting, as if they were barely resisting the urge to tackle him again. It made his smile want to widen, but he kept it at an amused smirk, brushing his gloved hands over their heads in an affectionate gesture.

"Good dogs. Now," he raised an eyebrow at them as Aster hopped from the bed to sit next to the other two. "What have I told you about being in line for inspection?"

On cue, all three tails immediately stopped. Paws slammed into the ground on rigid legs. Ears came forward, snouts closed, and as one, they locked into the pose. He bit back a chuckle, sitting forward on the bed and passing his eyes over the canines, the corners of his lips twitching. Gently, he slid his foot next to Blackie's left front paw, his fingers curling around the bottle of beer he had set on his dresser.

"Not so far out, now. There, now straighten a bit, straighten…good boy. Berlitz, keep that tail still. Schön."

Ludwig looked them over appraisingly, purposely waiting several moments to see how long they could hold their positions. Eyeing them, he took a long pull of his beer, the condensation on the glass cold and wet against his palm. Pleased when they remained at attention, he finally allowed the grin, which was their signal to jump him again.

"Ve! How cute!" A voice chirped from the doorway, making the laugh in Ludwig's throat stick.

Shoving Aster aside so he could see past wheat-colored fur, he glared at the curly-haired brunette standing with his hand on the door.

"Feliciano," he greeted, internally grumbling as strands of blonde fell into his eyes.

He caught a flash of golden eyes for a brief moment before the smaller man gave his trademark smile, tilting his head to the left in a charming manner. A small part of Ludwig envied him the ease with which he could adopt such a charismatic persona. A very small part, the German groused silently. The dogs shifted on the bed, stretching themselves along the side next to the wall and the foot of the bed. Blackie's body was pleasantly warm where he curled near Ludwig's lower back.

Feliciano's shirt was hanging open, revealing his lean chest. With his only other clothing being a dingy pair of yellow boxers, he was obviously either getting ready for bed or had gotten up from it at the sound of footsteps in the house. Ludwig propped his chin on a fist, regarding his ally quietly.

"Did I wake you?"

The shorter man shook his head gently, moving into the room at smooth his palms over Berlitz's dark fur. "I was just getting ready for bed," he replied, Berlitz rolling on his side for a belly rub. "I wasn't expecting you to be home yet."

Ludwig grunted, setting down his beer again before leaning down to remove his socks and fold them neatly next to his boots. He began to empty his pockets of their contents.

"I was ordered back from the front."

Feliciano hummed under his breath, still smiling softly as his fingers combed through the thick tufts of fur on Berlitz's stomach.

"But you're not staying."

Ludwig paused a moment, a crisply folded piece of paper grasped loosely in his fingertips. Sometimes he forgot that, for all the absent-minded mildness of the other nation, Feliciano rarely missed anything, at least when it came to people. He wasn't necessarily an observant person; he couldn't read a room's atmosphere. Rather, he could understand the hearts of people, pinpointing their joys and pains as easily as a well-trained hound tracked the fox. Admittedly, Ludwig's own heart was not light; an all too brief sojourn home had only placed more burdens on his broad shoulders. How Feliciano had perceived that he couldn't fathom, just as he was never certain how the brunette figured anything out.

"No," he answered after a moment, resuming cleaning out his pockets. "I'll be leaving first thing in the morning."

Feliciano was quiet for a time, extending his free hand towards Blackie's ears to give them a fond scratch. With his pockets cleared, Ludwig stood and unbuttoned his trousers. When the younger nation spoke up again, it was in a quiet voice.

"When will you be back?" There was a note of melancholy in his tone, like a forlorn church bell.

"I don't know," he answered briskly, ignoring the feeling of guilt churning in his belly.

Seeing the unhappiness on his small friend's face at that response, Ludwig clapped his hand on Feliciano's narrow shoulder, forcing a small smile to curve his lips.

"Don't worry so much. With the end of this mission, the end of the war won't be far behind."

He turned from petting the dogs, his upturned face becoming somewhat hopeful. A smile crossed his features, content and bright as a newly minted coin.

"Ve! You think so?"

Ludwig could only return the smile as he straightened, picking up his beer.

"Ja, I think so."

Feliciano made a happy noise, actually clapping his hands together. Ludwig downed the rest of the cool beer and set the empty bottle in the wastebasket he kept near the door. Looking at the dark, woven material, he was reminded of his conversation with Himmler not two hours prior. Abruptly, he half–twisted towards Feliciano, blue eyes a little wary.

"Oye, Feliciano?"

"Hmm?" the brunette responded, his gaze fixed on the dogs he continued to lavish attention on.

Feeling suddenly awkward, Ludwig let a silence stretch between them. He still could hardly believe what he'd seen that afternoon.

 _Eyes gleamed up at him resentfully from the small cage on the Reichsführer's desk, irises glittering like amber or topaz. The face that peered up at him was pinched in a fierce snarl, sharp teeth hanging over thin lips. Its skin was the color of dark leather, smooth and hairless. Not even a strand grew on the top of its head, which was bald, although the skull seemed to possess a certain amount of odd bumps. It held up a tiny hand, rising up on stubby legs. Three fingers and a thumb spread out as it hissed, a rat-like tail lashing. Knobs lined its back as if its vertebrae would burst through its flesh with the barest of movements._

 _Hopping and jeering, it scuttled around the gold-plated cage. Herr Himmler's black eyes burned with a strange light, watching the creature with a mixture of amazement and disgust. In truth, Ludwig had a similar impression, leaning forward a little to get a better look. It had no nose, merely two slits where one should be. It was at that moment that he noticed the odd trousers the little beast wore, along with a minuscule pickaxe strapped at its hip. It wore boots as well, nearly imperceptible as the tint of them blended perfectly with that of its skin._

 _"Reichsführer," Ludwig murmured, blue eyes wide, "Was ist—"_

 _"A kobold, Herr Deutschland_ , _freshly caught from a mine not far from the Black Forest," Himmler answered, a malicious glee ghosting across his features. "Only one of many kinds of elves haunting that woodland, we suspect, and the easiest to capture. Their intelligence is quite low."_

 _Staring into those furious gem-like eyes, Ludwig was not certain he would have agreed._

He shook his head suddenly, dispelling the recollection; coming home had made him more prone to wandering memories that he normally didn't care to. Instead, he focused on his friend, arms folded across his chest. He felt compelled to ask, and yet, he was reluctant to do so. Still, he mused, it couldn't hurt to have more information. The Reichsführer had not gone into great detail about these 'elves', as he had called them. Ludwig had not even been aware of the existence of such creatures in his country. In all honesty, he doubted that it would have mattered to him if he had been; he had never had an interest in things that didn't pertain to his personal goals.

Perhaps now was a good time to begin.

Ludwig did not entirely understand the benefits that Herr Himmler had seen in attempting to gain a further alliance with the Irish elves through the Republic of Ireland herself. The kobold certainly had shown nothing in its behavior that indicated its helpfulness to the war effort. But, orders were orders, he thought with a resigned sigh, even if he didn't see the point in some of them.

Forcing his gaze to remain steady and indifferent, he asked, "Do you have elves at your place?"

He could think of no other manner to ask the question besides being completely blunt. As a result, the curly-haired youth was taken aback, his eyes widening enough that Ludwig caught another glimpse of their golden hue.

"W-what? Elves?"

Ludwig nodded shortly, his cheeks beginning to flush involuntarily, feeling very foolish. Even so, he willed the blood to flow away from his features, keeping his stare even.

"Ja, elves. Do you know any stories about them?"

Feliciano's brows furrowed, then rose. "Do…you mean the fada?"

Ludwig shifted his weight from one foot to another, uncertain.

"Well, yes, I suppose so," he replied uncomfortably, settling himself by leaning a narrow hip against the dresser.

Feliciano appeared thoughtful, biting his lower lip as he continued to brush his fingers over Blackie's belly. "I haven't heard anything about the fada in centuries. Grandpa used to talk about them, though, about how they controlled the fates of men."

Ludwig inclined his head, his skepticism evident in his expression. "Little creatures like that shaped the destinies of men?"

Feliciano cupped his chin in his fingers, watching Blackie pant in canine bliss from his attention.

"The fada weren't necessarily little. They were dryads that melted into the trees and nymphs that played in the rivers." He smiled dreamily. "Do you want to hear the story my Grandpa used to tell me, Ludwig?"

Ludwig shook his head.

"Not tonight, I think, I need to be ready to go before sunrise tomorrow. When I get back, maybe," he promised.

The brunette wilted a little and coil of guilt slithered in his belly at his friend's sorrowful look. He crossed the room and clapped a hand to the little nation's shoulder.

"When I get back, you can tell me as many of the stories as you want."

Feliciano brightened considerably, his smile almost dazzling, and Ludwig bit back a sigh. It took so little to make him happy, and yet so much to keep him out of trouble. It was like having a younger brother that was in constant need of supervision. Leaving him this long with no one other than that haughty Roderich was a worry that was always in the back of the German's mind, even when his attention was narrowly focused on the war. To be absolutely truthful, it was difficult to believe that Feliciano was the older of the two, especially when one looked at them closely. But then, he supposed that Italians just naturally remain youthful looking well into old age. A blessing, if that was the case.

He ushered Feliciano out of his room and shut the door with a tired sigh. More than likely, he would sneak in later in the night and climb into bed with him, but for now, he had the place to himself. Well, maybe if he let the dogs stay on the bed, it would discourage him from trying.

Doubtful, but a man could hope.

Yawning, Ludwig threw back the covers of his bed and stretched out beneath them, his arms folded behind his head. With an effort, he stilled his busy thoughts and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow would be here before he knew it.


	5. Burden

Arthur's fingers drummed incessantly against the muscle of his thigh, the sound muted as they rhythmically tapped across the dark wool. His uniform was finely made, if showing a touch of wear here and there near the hems of his trousers and the cuffs of his sleeves. His other hand rested flatly against the crème linen tablecloth that had been smoothed across the simple wooden table in what had once been someone's kitchen. The large swath of burlap that served as an awning, stretched between two ruined walls, could barely be considered shelter from the light drizzle pattering down over the surrounding rubble. A delicate, blue china cup of tea steamed at his elbow, and a plate of warm biscuits remained untouched as dulled green eyes stared out across the encampment.

Headquarters had been demolished in the last air raid, the third time this month, the result of the Luftwaffe's steady, precise bombardment. His thumb twitched almost imperceptibly, brushing against the cool, chipped handle of the teacup. Beyond the skeletal remains of the once elegant townhome he could see decimated streets radiating in every direction, civilian and soldier alike combing through the debris in search of survivors, valuables, and the dead.

Arthur let out a heavy breath as he finally wrapped his fingers around the fragile handle and lifted the now lukewarm tea to his lips. Unable to enjoy the rich, citrus flavor of Earl Grey when he glanced once more out towards the smoldering corpse that was London, he sighed again and set the cup back down.

He truly hoped that Maggie knew what she was doing.

His fingers resumed their drumming as he stared, unseeing, towards the smoggy horizon extending far beyond the dingy city streets.

As loathe as he had been to admit it to his sister, let alone himself, this damned lightning war of Germany's may not have been strategically effective, but it was taking a devastating toll all the same. The sheer number of civilian deaths alone was enough to make his blood cold, and the first raids hadn't even been at night! 430 souls lost on a brilliant September afternoon. Nearly the entire harbor had been leveled. And now they were using even more powerful bombs. Reports were still coming in from the previous night's raid, and the sums were staggering.

It was at that moment that a slight blonde Lieutenant strode up through the wreckage, mindful of exposed metal and twisted rebar, a yellow notepad in his hand. Upon reaching his commander's table, he saluted sharply.

"Captain, sir, latest figures."

Arthur held out his hand, his features hardening before his eyes even scanned over the meticulously hand-written lists. The lines around his mouth deepened, his lips pressing together tightly before he set the pad down next to his cooling breakfast. Wearily, he pinched the bridge of his nose as his elbow thumped on top of the report.

"230 estimated dead and counts still rising," he muttered to no one in particular. "Damn!"

"Other units are still reporting in, sir, but it also appears that St. Anne's was hit the hardest. Completely leveled, sir."

"The orphanage?"

"Yes, sir."

"How many wounded?" Arthur asked tightly, not looking up. He could hear the major swallow hard.

"None so far, sir. We haven't been able to recover any survivors."

Arthur was silent for a long moment, a knot developing in his chest. Then he straightened and looked up with a curt nod.

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Dismissed."

The young officer snapped his heels together and saluted again, but Arthur neither noticed nor cared. They were being decimated, and without some kind of relief soon…

Shaking his head, the nation pushed up from the table and strode out from beneath the rudimentary tarp, into the remnants of the street. His gloved hands curled into loose fists as he turned to regard a posted sentry.

"Bring the motorcar around."

As the young soldier rushed to obey the order, Arthur fixed his gaze westward, towards a sky still dark, untouched by the morning sun and blackened with soot and smoke. Suddenly the air was filled with a deafening drone, loud enough that he could feel it vibrating in his bones, the shriek of the raid siren barely piercing the sound. Mournfully, he lifted his eyes heavenward, tugging on his dark leather gloves.

"Please, Maggie...hurry."

* * *

The morning was blessedly cool, only the sweetest hint of rain thickening the air as Maggie strolled out of her cottage, a simple basket hung on her arm. Almost instantly, her hair began to curl in the humidity, even as it clung to her neck and shoulders. Glancing towards the gently sloping hills that rolled away from the river that ran along the back of her property, she breathed in the comforting aroma of damp fog, foxglove, and good clean earth. The only thing missing was the sea. Her features softened further as she crossed the yard towards her little gate, the large flat stones of the path a welcome chill beneath her feet.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen the sea, which was an unfortunate testament to just how long it had really been. With a practiced motion, she unlatched the gate, slipping through it only to latch it back with a soft hum. In the days that had followed her accord with both her brother and the Sidhe, she'd been determined to not allow her disquiet to interfere with her routine. Nor was she willing to allow those decisions to dominate her thoughts. Time was a precious commodity that was being wasted, in her opinion, as she waited for her anticipated guest to arrive, but this was something that couldn't be hurried, she knew, not if this was to work. Firmly, she put the thoughts aside in her mind.

She had preparations to make.

Avoiding the road entirely, Maggie strode into the field. The long grass tugged on her skirt gently as she passed, like the fingers of children trying to tempt her to stay a moment. She held her hand down, letting the tips tickle her palm. The blades parted like emerald water in front of her as she made her way to the river bank. The earth became moist and soft, sloping down to the dark water that lazily flowed southward. A lone willow leaned its trunk out over the river, its drooping leaves trailing in the languid current. It was rare for the Brown to swell or quicken, but it did happen on occasion. This year, the water level was rather low, leaving much of the bed exposed. The willow's roots, gnarled and twisted, slinked up from the silt, dipping and curving in a knotted tangle. Maggie easily navigated over them, placing one hand against the tree for balance as her bare toes found slick purchase.

She lightly landed on the opposite bank, her feet leaving shallow impressions in the mud as she crossed into the next field. To her left was a thick copse of trees, their leaves dark and glistening from the mist that curled and hung in the air like white smoke. Low growing brambles slithered around the bases of many an oak along the treeline, their blackberries heavy and ripe. With gentle but firm hands, Maggie plucked them, and set them in the basket, nimbly avoiding the tiny, prickly thorns. Humming softly under her breath, she pushed her hair back as she bent down to collect the ones closest to the ground.

As she tugged the berries free, she allowed her mind to wander. Oran had given no hint as to who she was expecting to arrive on her stoop, but he had assured her that it was no one she should have felt threatened by. She snorted. Who wasn't a threat in this day and age? Even her own kin were untrustworthy. Seamus was perhaps the least likely to enter a conflict with her or her people, but that was likely only because he ignored her existence completely. Perhaps the most cheerful of all her brothers, it didn't change the fact that Northern Ireland was also the most obstinate. Their bickering was legendary, neither of them willing to back down, even when they were clearly in the wrong. It was the one trait they shared, their personalities so vastly different that it was difficult to imagine they were related at all.

As it had always been, their eyes gave them away, a vibrant green that, while contrasting in shade and hue, remained pale, and thus marked them as unique among nations. If her own irises were the light, cold green of the Irish Sea, then his were the rich, warm color of Spring itself. Maggie let out a harsh breath as she straightened. When they were young, so, so long ago, things had been quite different. The world had changed since that time, even since 1922, when Arthur had finally stepped in and formally separated them into two distinct states under his rule. While it had put a formal end to their disputes, it had been Seamus's pointed disregard of his sister that had severed any ties between the siblings. Taliesin and Magnus, at least, were on speaking terms with her.

She shook off her musing like an ill-fitted shawl, shuddering in the cool morning air. It mattered little now. She would have to find some way to work around it, if she couldn't reach out to him. There was no loophole in her pact with the Sidhe for her to wriggle through in order to avoid that. Maggie adjusted the handle of the basket on her arm and began walking again, over the hill lined with ancient timber, beams of sun-baked brown cracked and darkened with dew. Gathering her skirts, Maggie slipped her basket beneath the fence, then gripped a post and vaulted over it. Retrieving her berries, she then strode down the other side of the hill, picking her way through a white-curled herd of sheep as she went. They bleated around her, several of the lambs bumping against her legs in their eagerness to play. Maggie flashed them a bright smile, but kept going, murmuring a soft apology. She had business to attend to, but she'd be back, she promised.

At the bottom of the hill squatted a modest cottage that did not differ all that much from her own, its thick chimney coated in black soot and its yard fenced with the same kind of wooden beams that marked the line of the field. Maggie strolled down the hoof-beaten path that led to the gate, reaching over and letting herself in.

From the direction of the large barn, a voice echoed, "Maggie!"

She turned, her smile widening into a grin as dark-haired blurs raced towards her, two skinny pairs of arms thrown around her legs.

"Dylan, Fergus," she greeted, the boys tilting their heads back and looking up at her with twin expressions of impish glee as she gently pried their arms away so she could crouch down in front of them, setting her basket carefully on the ground next to them. "Good morning."

"Good morning," they said together.

Aside from the slightly shaggier cut of Dylan's hair, they were identical, with copper penny freckles dotting their faces and wide brown eyes the color of cinnamon. She glanced between them warmly.

"Taller than the weeds already," she said with a hum, watching with amusement as their features lit up with pleasure. "You'll be mountains before the year's out."

"Can you make us tall _now,_ Maggie?" Fergus asked, his brother tacking on a quiet, "Please?"

The corner of her mouth quirked a little higher at their wiggling, their small hands clasping together in a traditional benediction of pleading. Maggie stood and pressed a finger to her lips, furrowing her brow as if in thought.

"Well now, if I make you bigger now, there's a chance that it's as tall as you'll ever get," she lowered her hand until it hovered a couple of inches above Dylan's head. "And I can only increase your size to about here."

The twins exchanged an uncertain glance and she fought to keep her expression serious. They were adorable. They knew it, and frankly, took shameless advantage of it. Their deliberation was interrupted by a shrill call from the cottage doorway.

"Buachaillí!"

Both of them immediately jumped, their cheeks reddening as they turned as one to look at the hawkish woman standing with her hands on her thin hips. Maggie was always in awe of Callie Murphy. How a woman with that slender of a build carried not only the twins, but three other well built sons, she couldn't fathom, other than possessing a will of iron. She certainly ran their small farm as though that were the case. Her eyes, a lighter color than her sons', were steely as she regarded her youngest two, her dark brown hair pulled back in a severe bun.

"Don't be bothering the lady! Off with ya, I know for a fact the stable isn't clean, I can smell it from here."

"Yes, Ma!" Fergus answered for the both of them as they scampered back in the direction they'd come with Maggie's chuckle right on their heels.

Wiping her hands on her burlap apron, Callie stomped across the yard in boots that were much too big for her feet. Maggie's mirth faded as her gaze alighted on them. Thomas Murphy had been gone for nigh six months, his sense of duty finally sending him across the Irish Sea. Maggie truly missed the big man with his ruddy laugh lines and cheerful disposition. None of his sons had inherited his sandy hair, but all of them were quick to smile. His wife, despite her dour aura, was a good-natured woman.

"Every mornin', it's the same thing," she grumbled, coming to a stop in front of the slightly taller Maggie. Her mouth upturned crookedly, just a little. "Looking for those eggs, I take it?"

Maggie bent and scooped up her basket. "I would appreciate it, Mrs. Murphy. And good morning."

"Fine one it is, indeed," the woman replied briskly as she turned on her heel and headed for the coop next to the small house. "Better now that Clancy's finally starting to find a bit of game."

There was a gruff sort of fondness in the way she talked about her eldest, about all her children really. Maggie canted her head as she walked beside the matron. "So he's gotten the hang of his da's gun then?" she asked conversationally.

Callie grunted an affirmative as she flipped open the hatch of the coop. "Aye. He'll be bringin' home more than squirrels soon, mark m'words."

"Oh, I don't doubt it." Maggie eyed her hopefully as the woman placed several large brown eggs in her basket, next to the berries. "Is Clara in any better shape this morning?"

Callie shook her head, blowing a heavy breath through her thin lips. "No milk the last three morn's. Old girl's gettin' up in years, so maybe I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. First time in nearly ten years she's not been makin'."

Maggie chewed on one side of her mouth before dipping her head in a slow nod. "I wish I could do something about it."

The other woman patted her arm. "It's the way of things, cailín, it isn't your fault," she told her brusquely. "It'll either fix itself or it won't, nothing we can do."

Her tone reflecting reluctance, Maggie agreed. "I suppose not." She turned to face the woman more fully. "You'll let me know, though, if there _is_ anything I can do, won't you, Mrs. Murphy? With all those boys, I know it must be hard to keep everyone well and fed."

Callie's features softened minutely and she cupped the younger looking girl's cheek. "You're good to us, Éire, as good as you can possibly be in these times." She turned Maggie's head a little, gesturing to the pasture. "You've kept the land green, and other countries out of our borders. We've been able to hold our heads high because of the way you've led us. That's more than most of us could ask."

It was supposed to be a warm comfort, those words. But a cold weight slithered into her belly as the matron spoke, and Maggie fought to keep it from showing in her face. She was unable to keep herself from flushing, however, as she held up a waving hand in protest.

"M-Mrs. Murphy, really, you give me too much credit." She closed her eyes and smiled, her head tilting. "It's thanks to people like you that we prosper, good, honest folk that work hard every day."

Callie chuckled, a dry, reedy sound. "Keep those feet of yours on the ground, then, and we'll pull through this damn thing yet." Her eyes suddenly glittered brightly. "My Thomas'll be home sooner too."

The ice in her belly was making her nauseous now and Maggie swallowed hard against the roiling sensation. She nodded. "Aye, that he will. I'm sure of it."

Her cheeks ached from the smile that she refused to allow to slip, but she was unable to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. So, she excused herself as quickly as she could, lifting a hand towards the barn where the twins were tossing straw out of the large door. Well, they were really throwing it more at one another than they were out of the barn. On any other morning, it would have lightened her heart, but not this one.

The trek back to her own little cottage was much slower than the one across the river, her mind rebelling against her desire to keep focused only on the tasks at hand. As she moved back through the field towards her front gate, the sense of guilt intensified. Even knowing that what she'd done, what she was going to do, she felt that it wasn't enough. Even with her people's best interests at heart, it wasn't enough.

But war called for desperate measures.

And as she closed the door to her home, she realized with sudden clarity that she was _very_ desperate.

Shuddering at the damp draft that gusted through the open window, Maggie crossed the small space to the window and latched it tight. Her hand lingered on the shutter slats, her forehead falling forward to rest against them with a quiet thump. So many factions in search of leverage...and somehow she would need to find her own in the midst of them. With a sigh, she let her hands drop to the sink, curling her fingers around the damp washcloth she used to clean her dishes and forcing herself to drop the troublesome line of thinking.

It was easier with something else to focus on, and for a while, her mind was soothed by the familiar routine of cleaning her small home. It wasn't long before she began to hum as she worked, her foot tapping lightly as she set the last dish in the cupboard and began to wipe down her shelves. It was something light and quick to keep her moving and she enjoyed the memories that floated across her mind's eye as she worked. By mid-afternoon, the cabin nearly gleamed. The hearth had been cleaned and was now heated with a banked fire, her shelves free of dust, and her floors thoroughly swept. Swiping her brow with the back of her hand, she returned to the sink to wash and wring out the cloth she had been using, leaving it draped on the sink's lip to dry on its own. With a satisfied sigh, she reached for her kettle to fill it for her afternoon tea, thinking that she would perhaps use some of the blackberries she had picked to sweeten it.

"I beg your pardon, miss," someone said politely.

Maggie snatched her hand back, startled, her head whipping towards the window above the sink. Her shutters had been unlatched without a sound, and a small figure stood just on the windowsill, no more than eight inches tall, a shapeless brown hat in its tiny hands. Deep auburn hair crowned its head, sweeping back in a neat ponytail. Although its expression was pleasant, there was a sharpness to its wide features that reminded her of something hungry. The eyes were black, bottomless pools that further detracted from the appearance of geniality, and she knew that if it parted its lips in a wider smile, the teeth would be a row of needle-fine points.

She wasn't surprised to see that it had taken care to not cross the threshold of the window.

"Of course. Good afternoon," she replied finally, her hands settling on her hips. "I'm afraid I don't have any milk left to offer, but would you care for some honey instead? Or perhaps whiskey?"

The leprechaun's eyes gleamed brightly for a brief moment before it bowed with a gracious wave of its hat. "Whiskey, please."

As its hat was replaced on its head, Maggie reached into the back of her cupboard for the bottle she kept tucked away for colder nights. Setting a saucer on the windowsill, she uncorked the bottle with a hard pop and poured a generous amount for her unexpected guest.

"Thank you, miss," it said, producing a cup of its own from somewhere on its person and dipping it into the alcohol with a ravenous leer.

She chose not to watch it drink, instead returning her attention to her tea. Maggie busied herself with her preparations, dried mint and chamomile neatly bagged and placed in her teacup as she waited for the water to boil. By the time she was gently rapping her spoon against the porcelain, the whiskey and the fey were gone. In its place was a small square of paper held down by the saucer. Lifting both, she placed the note next to her steaming tea and cleaned the plate, putting it and the whiskey back in the cupboard.

A light rain had begun to fall, chilling the air, and she hurried to relatch the shutters. Her rocking chair was warm from the fire and she soaked in its heat as she sat down, her cup in one hand, the paper in the other. Her eyes scanned the contents slowly while she sipped, noting the scent of wildflowers that drifted up from the small sheet.

 _It will be our great pleasure to receive you and your guest to celebrate_ _Lá Bealtaine_ _on the eve of first summer. Our seneschal will await your arrival by the garden gate at moonrise._

 _We eagerly await your response._

An elaborate signature flourished across the bottom of the page. Maggie set it aside and leaned further back into her chair and set it to a gentle rhythm. Her breath escaped in a shudder and she closed her eyes tightly for a long moment. Well, she supposed she should have expected a missive, but the fact that it was the queen herself who penned it brought the consequences of her bargain sharply into focus. It seemed the Sidhe were quite keen to drive the point home, she thought bitterly.

Her tea no longer held any flavor to her, but she continued to drink it slowly, allowing herself time to form an adequate response. Once certain that she had one, she rose to find pen and paper. Her writing was swift and short.

 _It is with equal pleasure that I accept your gracious invitation._

She signed her name, knowing that the curtness of her tone would be rather clear when read. It would also likely amuse the queen to no end. Ignoring the tendril of irritation at that thought, she then carefully sealed it in a folded envelope and quickly opened her door to leave it just beneath the mat on her stoop. It would be gone by tomorrow, she knew.


End file.
